


Lost

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-28
Updated: 2006-02-28
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8073355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: A run-in with the Borg leaves Trip fighting to come to terms with his memories while his new lover struggles to remember who he was before. Crossover, Star Trek: The Next Generation. (04/20/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

All they could hear was screaming.

Trip's voice, raised in terror, words lost in the sound that came from somewhere deep inside him.

Captain Jonathan Archer could feel his own panic rising steadily. Nothing could have prepared them for this.

Nothing.

"Trip...TRIP!" Archer shouted through the Comm channel that linked them to the away team but he just wasn't getting through to his crewman. "Commander Tucker!"

Whatever was happening on the strange cubed vessel that loomed before them, it was freaking his hardened engineer.

Archer changed channels and almost succeeded in not yelling at his sub-commander when he said, "T'Pol! I need a lock on them and I need it now!"

Her voice came back, calm as a summer breeze. "There is too much interference, Captain. If I attempted to transport, the result may be undesirable."

"Damn it!" Archer looked desperately up at the front screen. "Ensign Hutch, prepare a shuttlepod." All eyes turned to stare at him. Lieutenant Reed was already lost over there, presumed dead. Trip was in trouble, maybe deeper than he could handle. "I won't leave them," Archer told the remainder of his bridge crew. Small nods were his only reply until Hutch's voice came over the Comm system. "Captain, it's going to take half an hour at least. Commander Tucker's been making modifications and..."

Archer spun, as through addressing the Comm link directly could possibly help. "They don't have half an hour, Hutch!"

"Sir..."

"Do it!" He was clutching at straws. They were running out of time. But what was he planning on doing over there? What chance did he stand against whatever had taken out Malcolm and Trip?

"Sir!"

That was Hoshi.

Turning, Archer's eyes fell on the view screen. Out of nowhere another ship had appeared, guns blazing, launching a full-scale attack on the cube ship. Archer felt his stomach lurch.

"Hail them!!!"

Hoshi opened the communications channel, fingers trembling over the buttons. "They're responding."

Archer didn't give their new friends time to speak. "I have two men in there!" he yelled, "don't blow it up!"

* * *

Hearing the desperate plea loud and clear, Captain Jean-Luc Picard pressed a finger to the panel on the arm of his command chair. "Geordi."

"Yes, Captain?"

"I need a lock on two men aboard that cube."

"Yes, Captain."

From behind Picard, Worf warned, "They're preparing to return fire."

"Now, Geordi."

"I can find one, but..."

"Weapons arming."

"Geordi..."

"I can't find...wait...Locked! Bringing them over."

"They're firing."

"Got 'em!"

Picard smiled. "Fire at will."

* * *

Archer's eyes were wide as he watched the terrible cube ship implode. "Polarise shields!"

Just in time, they protected themselves from the masses of debris flung from the centre of the vessel just before a bright, silent explosion.

"We have your men aboard," a soothing, English voice told the Enterprise bridge crew. "My name's Captain Jean-Luc Picard, of the USS Enterprise."

In the sudden quiet, his heart racing, Jonathan Archer knew he couldn't have heard what he thought he'd heard. "The Enterprise?"

"Yes. We have a visual on your ship and I have to say, you look very familiar."

Archer turned to Hoshi, and without being asked she located the other ship and put it up on screen.

"What the hell...?"

But Archer was getting used to the impossible occurring on a daily basis. "It seems that the phase 'just in the nick of time' isn't adequate in this case, Captain Picard," he replied with a faint smile. "I'm Captain Jonathan Archer, also of the Enterprise." He shook his head in wonder. "How are my men?"

* * *

The Borg cube had barely taken the first hit from the battery of Enterprise D's weapons when Geordi had requested a security team and a medical team to transporter room one.

"We have your men aboard. My name's Captain Jean-Luc Picard, of the USS Enterprise."

As the response came through, Data put the lucky ship up on the screen. "Sir?"

Picard's eyes widened as he took in the image on screen. "Yes," he confirmed Archer's query with a smile. "We have a visual on your ship and I have to say, you look very familiar." Turning from the screen for a moment, he cut the channel to the other ship and touched the Comm link on his chest. "Geordi, is everything all right?"

"Sir, one of crewmen we brought aboard...it looks like they were part way through assimilating him." Jean-Luc felt a sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "The second guy's physically ok but he's borderline hysterical."

"I'll meet you in sickbay." He nodded to Data who reopened the channel to the second Enterprise. "Captain Archer, I think you should come aboard. One of your men has been very badly injured."

He knew how those words must have sounded.

"I'll have a shuttlepod prepared."

Picard frowned. "You don't have a transporter?"

"We have one, but we don't use it except for emergencies. It's not entirely stable."

"If you drop your shields and transmit co-ordinates, we'll bring you aboard using ours. Believe me, Captain, it's quite safe."

A hesitation. Then, "Thank you."

Worf scanned the other ship. "I have the data."

Picard contacted transporter room two before gesturing for Data o follow him from the bridge.

"Ensign Neill, please bring Captain Archer aboard as soon as you have co-ordinates."

As they walked along the corridor to the transporter room, Picard tapped his Comm link again.

"Geordi?"

"We're in sickbay, Sir."

"How are they?" He could hear Beverly in the background. It sounded like she was busy.

"Not good, Captain. Beverly's just knocked one of them out cold for a couple of hours. The other one...she thinks she can remove the implants but she's doing a scan now to see how deep the neural connections go."

"Their captain's coming aboard, I'll bring him straight to sickbay."

Archer looked around as the room shimmered into view. He hated the feelingâ€”the ideaâ€”of what the transporter did to the human body. But he wanted to see Trip and Malcolm. Whatever Trip had found, it had to have been bad for him to crack as he had done. Archer didn't want to leave them alone on a ship full of strangers for too long.

"I think the best explanation is that we're from the future," Picard said carefully as he shook Archer's hand, "just don't ask me how we got here. This is my Science Officer, Data."

Archer smiled, shook the second hand. "Call me Jon. Are Trip and Malcolm all right?"

Picard took a breath and held it for a moment. "You've never come across Borg before, I take it?"

"Borg?"

"That shipâ€”the cubeâ€”belonged to a species called Borg. They're a collective community of linked...beings that were once alive, were once individualsâ€”humans, ferengi, klingons, vulcans, it doesn't matter what species."

Archer frowned. "I don't...I'd like to see my men."

"They've been moved to sickbay, we'll take you there." They stepped out of the transporter room. "I just need you to be prepared."

"You said that one of them had been badly injured. We lost contact with Malcolmâ€”Lieutenant Reedâ€”early on."

"Borg don't...kill. They use, they collect, assimilate."

"Assimilate?"

"Turn others into Borg. They use electronic implants to turn human beings into cyborgs." Picard could see the colour drain from Archer's face, even in the warm amber glow of the corridor lighting. "Apparently they were in the process of...assimilating your Lieutenant when we brought him aboard."

"Can it be...undone?"

Picard nodded. "We've done this before. There will be...scars." He stopped, knowing he was scaring the other captain. "He'll be all right, Jon, we'll make sure of that."

* * *

Nothing could have prepared him.

When he first saw the inert form lying on the biobed, he didn't even realise it was human, never mind it being his armoury officer.

When he did recognise Malcolm, he almost screamed. He knew then what had tipped his chief engineer over the edge.

Malcolm still wore his uniform, but it was filthy, covered in dirt, grime, blood and other fluids Archer didn't dare think about.

One side of the boyishly handsome features was just as Archer was used to seeing. The other side was obscured by prosthetics.

There was an eyepiece attached to Malcolm's temple and cheekbone, covering most of the left side of his face. Something ran around the back of his head, from his crown to the base of his skull, a crescent of dark technology from which a narrow tube ran, tunnelling into the soft flesh between jaw and neck.

His left arm was a weapon, sleeved in the controls for it. The hand was gloved in that same dark material, with another narrow tube feeding into his wrist.

Archer felt his stomach lurch and for a bizarre moment thought he might throw up. To see his gentle Lieutenant strapped to the biobed, mutilated almost beyond recognition by an alien race Archer could barely contemplate, pushed him toward the same fall that Trip had taken.

"Trip..."

Looking around, Archer saw the second of his crewmen lying on his back on another bed, on the other side of sickbay. He immediately crossed to his friend, relieved to see that there were no implants on Trip's body.

Doctor Beverly Crusher was keeping an eye on the man she thought might become her third patient of the day. "We had to sedate him, he was extremely disturbed."

Archer reached out to touch the blond hair at Trip's temple.

"He was screaming," he murmured softly, as if to himself. "I couldn't get through to him. He must have found Malcolm like that and just lost it." He watched Trip sleep for a few seconds, finding the rhythmic breathing relaxing.

Finally he found the strength to turn back to the small group around the other bed. The doctor was moving Malcolm's head to one side, looking more closely at the tube running into his throat.

Archer took a deep breath and walked back to them, hearing her say,

"...injected him with an inhibitor that should disable any nanoprobes in his blood stream."

She was leaning down, pressing a sterile pad to the place where the first tube entered Malcolm's throat.

Very gently she pulled on the tube. Despite himself, Archer was drawn to the procedure. He moved closer, eyes flicking between the removal of the tube and the human side of Malcolm's absurdly peaceful face.

The reaction of the Borg's victim was as fast as it was violent. Malcolm's left arm swung up, missing removing the top of the doctor's skull by a hair's breadth. Beverly cried out with surprise and stepped back as the mutilated form of the Lieutenant sat bolt up-right.

Two security officers moved in quickly, and, eternally protective, Archer too moved to protect his Lieutenant.

A red laser-sight projected from the centre of the eye-piece to the furthest corner of the room, moving with Malcolm's head. A twisted smile touched the lips and his left arm rose in a graceful arc.

The shot was aimed at Captain Archer but before he had a chance to fire, Data had moved around the frozen officers and wrapped one strong hand around the weapon attached to Malcolm's arm. In one fluid move he'd pushed that arm away to one side. The phaser-like energy shot took out the foot of an empty biobed.

Angry, the Borg in Malcolm started to fight. But Data slid his other hand under the feeding tubes, spreading his fingers around the base of Malcolm's pulsing throat.

"Data! No!" Picard took two steps forward and Archer, in the horrific absurdity of it all, wondered briefly what his future counterpart was planning on doing.

But Data wasn't strangling Malcolm. He was merely holding him back. His thumb and middle finger were pressed into the hollows either side of Malcolm's throat, just below the feeding tubes. It was the frantic movements of the Borg that were closing the tubes against those immovable digits. Once he stopped struggling and trying to get to his captor, Data let up the pressure and the Borg could function normally.

Archer watched the pale man silently subdue the horror on the biobed. Data hadn't shown fear, strain, there was no sign that holding back the Borg had caused him any problems whatsoever. In fact, Data was now sitting on the bed, hands still holding Malcolm back, eyes searching out the shreds of the human being that remained under the machinery.

"It would be better if you did not fight," he told Malcolm softly. Then he turned to Beverly. "I will hold him while you remove the implants."

But she had a second hypo-spray in her hand and pressed it to the side of Malcolm's neck. The Borg/Human collapsed back to the bed, head cradled in Data's big hand where it had moved from the throat with lightening-fast speed.

Archer had to will his heart to stop beating so damned hard in his chest. He swallowed back on the cry of helplessness desperate to break free.

Suddenly, he had to get out of there. He knew it was wrong of him, knew he was supposed to stay with his crewmen, but this was more than he could bear.

As if reading his mind, Picard put a hand on his shoulder. "We should leave them to work."

Archer nodded once, thankful beyond words. But he couldn't help his gaze lingering on Malcolm's face as the doctor unclipped the lens of the eye-piece and removed it. In doing so, she exposed a tiny implant that ran in through the centre of the dark pupil to the optic nerve.

"Oh God..." Archer couldn't keep the repulsion and horror from his tone.

"Come on. Let Beverly do what she needs to do."

Despite knowing he had to, for his own sanity's sake, walking out of sickbay was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

* * *

The door of Picard's Ready Room closed behind them.

"Would you like a drink?"

Archer nodded as he walked to the window and looked out at his own ship. She looked so small against this other Enterprise, even from this distance.

"Don't suppose you've got any bourbon?"

Picard inclined his head and stepped away from the replicator, sitting down to reach into a cabinet behind his desk and hunt around until he pulled out a bottle and two glasses.

"Don't tell Commander Riker about this, he'd finish it off in a second without a moment of regret."

"Even the next morning?"

"Even then." Picard poured two generous measures of the amber liquid and handed Archer a glass.

"That man, Data? He's incredibly...together."

Picard laughed. "He's an android."

"An android? You're kidding, right?"

The bold man shook his head. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life wondering if he'd still be here if I hadn't told you that."

Archer wanted to laugh, somewhere inside of him, but he couldn't.

"What happened?"

The other captain took a deep swig, feeling the heat of the alcohol burning the back of his throat.

"We were fixing an engine problem. One minute we were alone, the next that thing was coming out of nowhere. It just stopped dead. We hailed it and got no response. The last time that happened, the other guys tried to blow us to bits, so I had us move away at impulse." He took a deep breath. "Then it hailed us."

He didn't think he'd ever forget the chilling voices that had spoken as one over the Comm channel.

"I felt this shiver run down my spine, but I wasn't going to run away from a first contact situation just because I didn't like the sound of them! They said, 'we are Borg'. And they spoke in English! Curiosity got the better of me."

Taking another long drink, Archer put the empty glass down on the desk. Picard poured him another.

"When we first set out, I went on every away team. But Trip was getting antsy about me taking so many risks, and my sub-commander suggested I let someone else go this time, just to check that it was safe." He shook his head. "I should've gone."

Picard leaned forward. "I have the same problem with my first officer."

"This time...It made sense for Malcolm to go. He's the best marksman we have. And Trip...The situation was so uncertain and I knew they'd look out for one another. I thought if I just let the two of them go, they'd be able to assess the situation quickly and get back to the shipâ€”if the aliens were friendly, we'd send a welcoming committee."

Sighing, he rubbed his face with one hand, swirling the bourbon in his glass with the other.

"It was the wrong decision. I just...I trust too much. I should have pulled them out of there as soon as they arrived! Trip had the radio and he was giving us a running commentary. What he was describing was so strange but he was really excited! He said the technology was beyond anything he recognised. He wanted to know what it all did. It couldn't have been more than two or three minutes. We heard phaser fire, shoutin', and then Trip yellin' that Malcolm was gone. I thought he meant...dead. I tried to get him to clarify, but he was going after something or someone. We could him running. And then...more shouting, more phaser fire. The next thing we knew, he was screaming."

Picard was watching him, sympathy shining in his eyes. "I'm sorry. We've encountered them before in our time, I've...been in the situation that your Lieutenant is in. I survived."

Archer couldn't stop his eyes widening. But it gave him hope for Malcolm. "You...remember? What it was like?"

The other man nodded, obviously unsure why he was telling this to a complete stranger. "I remember everything." He looked at the desk top. "The implants, the...things inside me, moving in my veins, restructuring me from within, turning me into one of them." Glancing up, he saw the fear in Archer's face for his crewman. "There's no use in denying what Lieutenant Reed has been through, Jon. But I have no reason to believe he won't recover like I've done. There will always be the memories. And when a Borg hive is close by, I can hear that voice you described, inside my head."

"Well take care of him," Archer swore, once he knew he had control over his own voice.

Picard smiled. "I know you will. They only put the best in charge of the Enterprise." His smile triggered a similar response.

* * *

After a long couple of hours, sickbay was finally quiet again.

Disposing of the remains of her patient's uniform, Beverly cleaned her hands and wandered over to the bed to check the monitors.

Malcolm was sleeping deeply now, a mild neural inhibitor preventing any dreams from disturbing him.

They'd dressed him in a pair of the standard, medical, mint green pyjamas and covered him with a thick blanket. She smiled to herself at the ease with which the concept sat with her. Everything they'd experienced and seen, it was as if time travel was becoming as second nature as warp speed. She'd really been too busy that afternoon to worry about 'how's and 'why's.

Reaching out, Beverly stroked the backs of her fingers over the damp, black hair. Removing the eyepiece connector from Malcolm's eyeball and optic nerve, unscrewing the crescent of technology and its connections through his skull into his brain, had caused a lot of bodily fluids to drain into his hair. When they'd finished, she'd washed it for him, just wanting to make his waking as painless and fearless as possible.

There had been extensive damage to his vocal chords, which, although she'd done all she could, would just take time to heal. She'd found a kind of wire mesh inside his throat, attached to the crescent on his head by a connector running along the inside of his left cheek.

Where the weapon implant had been attached to his arm, the skin had been burnt and cut. She'd healed a lot of the damage, much of the internal disruption, but there were livid bruises remaining.

The idea that he'd been lucky didn't gel with what she knew about what he'd already experienced. Maybe if he'd been lucky he'd have died on the Borg cube.

A groan from the other bed caught her attention. Immediately she tapped her Comm link.

"Dr Crusher to Captain Picard. Command Tucker is coming round, Sir."

By the time Archer and Picard reached sickbay, Trip was sitting up on the edge of his bed, sipping at a glass of water. Beverly was with him, but his entire attention was focused on the sleeping man two beds down from him.

"Trip?" Archer's voice at least made him look round.

"Jon!" So deep was the obvious relief in the heavily accented voice, that Beverly thought they might actually hug one another. But they stopped short, Archer's hand going to his Commander's shoulder, squeezing gently.

After a moment, Trip's regard returned to Malcolm. "Jon, I'm sorry. I couldn't stop them, I...didn't know what they were doing until I saw them drilling into his eye..."

Archer's gaze too had fallen on his Lieutenant. "It's okay, Trip, this isn't your fault. You saved his life."

"I didn't. I...I just fired at every one o' those things, tryin'a get them offof him." He was winding himself up again, and along with the doctor, Archer tried to calm him.

"Take it easy, Trip. You did everything you could."

Trip closed his eyes, his free hand gripping the edge of the bed. "As I was firing, he...he sat up. That eye thing just glowed red and the veins in his neck were bulgin' out like they were being pumped full of something, more than they could take."

Dropping off the bed, swaying slightly as he stood, Trip shrugged the doctor's steadying hand off his arm and walked over to the bed where Malcolm lay.

Wrapping his arms around himself, still gripping the half-empty glass of water, he asked, "He's gonna be ok, ain't he?"

Staying back, Beverly answered softly. "We've removed all of the Borg implants as well as disabled the nanoprobes that were in his system. They'll be cleared out of his bloodstream in time. All that's left of his experience are his memories."

"And what must they be like?" The words were mere whispers.

Moving closer, Trip stroked his hand over Malcolm's hair, sweeping down to cradle one side of his friend's head. For a time, he just stood like that, then he started to talk again.

"When he sat up and looked at me...It was like there was nothin' of Mal in there, just the thing they'd turned him into. He raised his arm and pointed that weapon at me. I aimed at him, set it on stun, but it didn't have any effect." A note of hysterical was slowly rising in his voice. "I changed the setting to kill, but I couldn't...I just couldn't. And then he spoke. And his voice...he sounded just like the rest of them. I just...lost it. I'm sorry." He shook his head, voice catching. "I'm so sorry."

Closing in on him, Archer stood at his side and wrapped his arms around his best friend. Hugging him close, he just held on. There were no tears, just a subtle trembling that drove through both of them.

"Don't do this to yourself, Trip. Mal's okay, he's going to be okay."

"How could he be ok after what those...things did to him?"

"Don't beat yourself up over it. We're gonna look after him, whatever it takes."

Taking two deep breaths, Trip pulled back and Archer released him. "Sorry. I'm..."

"You're shaken, Trip. It's natural." Turning his head to glance at the other captain, ignoring for now the questions written all over his face, Archer smiled. "Got any more of that bourbon?"

* * *

Jean-Luc sat back, eyes settling on the man asleep on the sturdy couch of his ready room. The crew of the other Enterprise was different. The two men he'd met seemed closer, less formal. Even trapped in the nightmare situation they found themselves in, their enthusiasm for the exploration they'd embarked on shone through.

He desperately wanted to go aboard the other ship, but he wasn't honestly sure who was encroaching on whose timeline. He didn't want to mess with the time continuum anymore than they already were doing, and that thought alone had brought forth an idea that was both unsettling and comforting at the same time.

Commander Tuckerâ€”Tripâ€”had drunk most of the rest of the bourbon. Picard knew what he was trying to forget. Seeing his colleague, his friend, being mutilated and then having to open fire to save his own life while that inhuman voice dripped from the other man's lips, the electronic implants taking control of his body...Too many conflicting emotions were awakened by the images playing in his mind.

Picard shivered once and rising from his seat, he left the crewman to sleep off the alcohol.

Archer had gone back to sickbay, wanting to be there when Lieutenant Reed woke.

Picard wasn't sure if he wanted to be there or not. He was frightenedâ€”truth be toldâ€”that to look into that man's eyes would be like looking in a mirror.

* * *

Archer sat at Malcolm's side, loosely holding his hand as he slept.

He looked so peaceful, something Archer understood wasn't going to last. But he'd meant what he'd said to Trip. They'd look after Malcolm, bring him through this.

Archer would do it because it was his duty to protect his Lieutenant, and he cared deeply for the man.

Trip would do it because he loved Malcolm. As simple as that. He loved him, had done almost from the first moment they'd stepped aboard Enterprise.

Archer had seen it written all over the face of his friend one afternoon on the bridge. The spark in Trip's eyes when he looked at Malcolm told Jon everything. Not that he could blame Trip. His armoury officer was a dark beauty for sure, with a dangerous streak that he could understand Trip finding highly alluring.

But as yet, much to Trip's increasing agitation, Malcolm wasn't taking a blind bit of notice. Tucker had done his homework. Reed dated men as well as women. No big deal. Lots of guys did. Trip refused to believe he wasn't Malcolm's type.

Archer smiled sadly to himself as he stroked the back of the chilled hand with his thumb. It was no wonder Trip had reacted as he had to what he'd seen on the cubed vessel.

"I hope you let him help you through this," he murmured softly, eyes moving over Malcolm's face, catching on the snow-white dressing covering his eye, and the slightly reddened patches on his cheek and neck.

This ship's sickbay had medical technology that would have Phlox drooling if he ever got over here. They'd healed wounds to Malcolm's body that it would have taken him weeks, even months, to recover from on their own Enterprise.

Even his eye, which had been punctured in order to thread into his brain the delicate electronics required to work the eyepiece, was covered simply to stop him using it when he woke. It would be highly sensitive to light and quite sore for a few days, Dr Crusher had explained. On their ship, Malcolm would probably have lost the use of it permanently.

It was difficult to take in the incredible differences. Archer was secretly proud of his own strictly-maintained, outward calm.

When it happened, there was no warning.

Suddenly, the shrieks of the medical monitor alarms were filling the quiet of sickbay.

Over the shrill noises, Malcolm's waking scream ran along Archer's nerves like a sharp current. Vocal chords damaged, the sound was a grating, painful one to hear. But so forceful was it that when it dissolved into a retching cough, blood started to run over Malcolm's dry lips.

Archer was on his feet in a second, catching Malcolm by the shoulders as he launched himself into a sitting position. "Doctor!"

Obviously terrified, Malcolm's hands flew to his face. Fingers clawed, he started to scratch at his covered eye and the left side of his head. His right eye was open, wide and dark, casting around for some clue as to the location of his enemy.

Gently, Archer took a hold of his Lieutenant's wrists and pushed them down as Beverly arrived on the scene, hypo-spray in hand.

"No!" Archer managed to stop her from injecting his officer, relieved when she hesitated. "Malcolm? It's Captain Archer. You're safe, you're aboard Enterprise. It's okay, it's over, it's all over." As he spoke, he let go of Malcolm's hands but kept up the physical contact, stroking the slim but powerful arms, taking care not to brush over the sore patch where the weapon had been connected.

He sat slowly down on the edge of the bed, easing his palm over Malcolm's shoulder, hoping the gentle touch would anchor the frightened man.

The other's expression was one of abject fear and no little confusion. But he parted his lips, and Archer barely caught the spoken words.

"Eleven...of...twenty."

The captain frowned, glancing up at the doctor.

"What did he say?"

"'Eleven of twenty'." He watched the colour drain from her face. "What does it mean?"

"Nothing." Way too fast, and Archer knew there was something wrong. But she didn't give him chance to question her. "Keep talking to him, keep saying his name."

Archer turned back to his Lieutenant, staying as close as he could without the other man freaking again.

"Malcolm, we've removed all those things from you." He lightly covered Malcolm's dressed eye with his other hand to make his point. "All gone."

The confusion was turning into upset. The sharp features were crumpling, utter misery clouding his good eye.

"It's okay, Malcolm," Archer continued, "it's all right."

Beverly had shut off the monitor alarms and the readings were starting to return to normal. Heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, all settling.

Archer glanced up and read the information with little difficulty. "That's it, Malcolm. Take it easy." Carefully, he lowered his crewman back to the bed, making sure he kept eye contact, hoping the expression on his face was one of safety and peace.

"You were hurt," he explained cautiously. "Badly hurt. But you're okay, we found some friends and they've helped you." It wouldn't be too longâ€”he hopedâ€”before Malcolm figured out that he wasn't in their sickbay. He'd spent enough time in their own version to know it well.

Looking down at himself for the first time since he'd woken, Malcolm reached his right hand over to touch his left arm, to check for himself, Archer assumed, that the weaponry was no longer a part of him.

Archer waited, backing off slightly, letting the other reassure himself that he'd been told the truth.

Beverly too was happy to keep her distance. There wasn't much more she could do for her patient right now. She just had to hope that he was surrounded by the same strength that had allowed Jean-Luc to recover.

Eventually Malcolm quieted.

Archer hoped that maybe now he was settled again, Malcolm would drift back to sleep, allow himself some respite from the nightmare he recalled.

But he didn't. Instead, he managed to force another word from his damaged throat.

"Trip?"

"Trip's fine. He lost it for a while back there but he's okay. He's sleeping off the bourbon we fed him."

Archer had hoped to bring a smile to Malcolm's face, but instead it creased once again in confusion. "Lost it?"

A glance at Beverly warned him not to explain. "Doesn't matter. He's fine, don't worry about him. I'll tell him you're awake, I know he wants to see you."

Malcolm nodded, eyes closing. His breathing evened out a few minutes later, but Archer stayed a while longer.

* * *

"Aren't they the cutest?"

Picard let out a long, deep breath, not looking at the man sitting beside him at the bar in Ten Forward. "You're responsible for all this."

"Who else?"

Picard snorted. "Who else indeed." He sipped his drink, still not looking around. "I thought you got in trouble when you messed with the continuum."

"Sometimes. When the rest are paying attention. But their interest is...elsewhere at the moment."

Picard's voice was flat, devoid of any humour when he said, "I hope you wait until their crewmen and captain leave the ship before sending us home."

"What makes you think it's you who has to go home? Have you checked your position?"

Frowning, Picard did glance up then, eyes flitting over his colourful visitor's face. "I assumed..."

"You assumed wrong. I brought them to you. Or rather, I brought them to the Borg, and then brought you to them. But you're only a few light years off from your original course, they're a lot further from home."

Picard sipped his drink, thoughtful. "The Borg weren't encountered until you showed us, almost eight years ago. Won't they take back their own knowledge."

"Their report won't ever reach Starfleet. Their records will be lost, their memories will fade."

"Not all of them." Picard missed the pained expression, the roll of eyes. "Why?"

"I was bored."

Picard stared up then, anger flashing in his eyes. "Bored? You put that young Lieutenant through all this because you were bored?!"

"He'll live."

"He'll never be the same."

"Dr Crusher to Captain Picard!"

Picard tapped his Comm link, catching the flash of brilliant light out of the corner of his eye that signalled his visitor's departure. "Picard."

"Captain, it's Lieutenant Reed, Sir. He's gone from sickbay."

With a wink, Picard's companion vanished.

The captain shook his head, muttering to himself before re-establishing a Comm channel. "Picard to Geordi."

A pause before a breathless voice replied, "Geordi here, Sir."

"I need a sweep of the ship, tell me where Lieutenant Reed is." Not until he'd issued the command did Picard wonder at the state of his engineer, at what he might have disturbed. His concern for their ward was too personal, he knew.

"The Lieutenant is on the Observation Deck, Sir. He's alone."

"Thank you, Geordi." He hesitated. "Good night." Breaking the communication link, he almost called Data, but something stopped him. Biting his lip for a moment, he slid off the barstool and headed for sickbay.

He met Captain Archer and Commander Tucker half way. "We don't..."

Picard cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I know where he is."

They arrived outside the door to the main Observation Deck. It opened to reveal the huge, empty area. They used it for entertaining political dignitaries and for holding special ceremonies. On those occasions it was full of life and laughter, or chants and singing.

Tonight, it was empty safe for one man.

Reed was huddled with his back against the curved wall, his forehead pressed against the strengthened plexi-glass of the window that spanned a quarter of the perimeter of the room, looking out into space.

Picard stepped forward, but Archer blocked his way with his arm. "Let Trip talk to him."

"I...I understand what he's going through."

"That may be so, Captain, but Trip knows Malcolm." Nodding at his friend, Archer shrugged off his jacket and handed it to Trip who took it.

Slowly, Trip made his way across the empty space, not taking his eyes off the man he was heading for. He'd seen what they'd done to Malcolm, he wondered how long it would be before he could close his eyes and see anything but the memory of that perversion of his friend taking aim at him.

When he got close enough, he crouched down, cautiously wrapping the captain's jacket around Malcolm's narrow shoulders. The other man wore only the thin pyjamas they'd dressed him in in sickbay.

Slowly, Trip sat himself down on the carpeted floor, sitting to one side of his friend, facing him.

"Mal?" Reaching up, he pulled the sides of Archer's jacket down further over Malcolm's shoulders, leaving his hands there for a time. "Come on, Mal, talk to me."

Malcolm's head lifted from the window and slowly he looked at Trip. The blue-grey of his good eye was haunted. The dressing that covered the other was spotted with red and pink.

"Trip..."

"Yeah. You should be in sickbay."

Malcolm closed his eye for a moment before looking back out into space. Touching his fingers to the glass, he indicated the other ship, their own ship. Eerily still, she was sitting a little way off, hanging against the bright darkness.

"It's not our sickbay. Where are we?"

"Well, you're no' gonna believe this, but we're on the Enterprise D. She's about...a hundred and eighty years ahead of our Enterprise." He didn't know whether or not Malcolm was even listening. "We'll be going back soon, Mal, they just want to be sure you're okay. They know what they're doin'. They ain't gonna hurt ya."

Malcolm pulled one leg up, tucking it under his chin. The thin material didn't leave too much to the imagination and Trip tried not to stare.

After a long time, Malcolm murmured, "I want to go home."

"Soon, Mal, I promise." He squeezed his friend's shoulder.

Again, Malcolm dropped his forehead to the glass. "I'm frightened."

Trip ached for him, but he didn't know what to do or say. All he could think about was how Malcolm had looked on that vessel, how he'd sounded. "I know," he soothed. "But there's nothin' to be scared of. This ship blew the cube to liddy biddy pieces. All those awful things are dead. They can' touch you. They won' hurt you again."

Malcolm's voice was a mere whisper when he said, "There are more out there. I can hear them...talking, calling to me."

There was something in his tone that sent a chill down Trip's spine. "Just stay there, Mal," he murmured, "we'll get you home soon."

Climbing to his feet, he hurried back to where the two captains were standing.

"He's terrified," he told the men without preamble. "And he says he can still here those things...He wants to go home."

Archer glanced at Picard. "What does he mean, he can still hear them? I thought you destroyed the ship!"

"We did. But if there any Borg in the area he'll be sensitive to...to their song." He gazed over at the huddled form in the furthest corner of the room, looking further away than he actually was. "You should return to your ship. I'll get Beverly to provide you with any medication she believes Lieutenant Reed might require, including the inhibitor."

"What about...?"

Picard instinctively knew what Archer was referring to. "Give me an hour to sort that out. I'll have some clothes transported from your ship for Malcolm."

With one last look at their ward, Picard left.

* * *

"Q!"

Standing alone in the middle of Ten Forward, Picard looked around him.

"Come on, Q. I know you wouldn't go to so much trouble and not stay around to see the results!"

A sigh warmed the back of his neck and he turned.

"You know me too well," Q chided. "I don't know if that's a good thing."

"It isn't." But he was smiling. "Send them home, Q. It'll drive him insane, they're not ready for this."

"Is there anyone, anything you don't care for?"

Picard shrugged. "You know my reasons."

"I do." Another sigh, this time even more overly dramatic. "And you're right of course, I've tortured them enough. In two hours I'll send their Enterprise back to its own time. And I'll put you back on course." He leaned in slightly, face inches from Picard's. "Do you hear them too?"

Jean-Luc hesitated, but nodded.

When he didn't elaborate, Q backed off. "Have you seen...Trip with your young Lieutenant?"

The question brought a frown to Picard's face. "I don't know what..."

"They're crazy about one another, those two. I've never interfered, but I have been watching the crew for sometime. They're in love with one another and yet neither has found the courage to admit it."

Picard took in the information, realising that Q wasn't the only one who knew about the crewmen's feelings.

"You haven't interfered?"

"They're not ready to know about me, about the Continuum."

"But they are ready to know the Borg, to know that kind of terror?"

Q stared at his companion, frustration and anger warring with affection. "Maybe it'll mean a boost to your own defences, Jean-Luc."

With no further explanation, Q vanished in his customary way.

* * *

Beverly Crusher was finding it difficult to keep her curiosity under control.

She and Picard had accompanied Archer, Reed and Tucker to their own ship. She'd wanted to speak to their doctor, to explain what had been done to his patient, what he should still treat and what he needed to keep a look out for.

Malcolm needed an injection of the nanoprobe inhibitor once a day for a week, with a full blood work-up and scan every day to make sure that there was no Borg technology activity in his system whatsoever.

She'd recommended that he remain on sick leave for that week, and that his mental state was monitored. They had no counsellor on board, and it obviously worried Archer that in the future it was felt that they needed one.

"There's a lot more people on Enterprise-D," Beverly explained as they were shown to sickbay. "Only a small percentage of them are what you'd call military Starfleet. The rest are explorers, scientists. There are families. When things go wrong it's good for them to have someone impartial to talk to."

"And you think Malcolm would benefit from that right now?"

"Yes. Just...keep an eye on him, and listen when he does talk." She paused in her stride. "He's seen things, experienced things, that you can't being to understand. Keeping those things to himself wouldn't be advisable."

Doctor Phlox was as excited as Beverly to meet a counterpart from a different time. Without letting too much slip, she gave him a few quick pointers about a few of the more common human ailments and explained about the procedure to extract the Borg implants, in the most simplistic terms she knew. All this was done under Picard's watchful and reproaching glare.

As she spoke, Phlox's gaze settled sympathetically on Malcolm, who sat restlessly on the edge of a biobed, Trip sitting at his side.

"None of that sounds particularly pleasant, Doctor," Phlox commented after all he'd been told. It was ruthlessly understating his reaction, but he wasn't sure what a suitable response was.

"No. He needs your care, and he needs the support of the rest of the crew. If this ship's anything like ours, rumours can reach every pair of ears in less than a day."

Phlox thought about the events surrounding Trip's pregnancy. No one had been any the wiser until he'd pulled up his shirt in the middle of the bridge to prove to the Klingon captain that what Archer was telling them was true.

"I'm not sure it's something the rest of the crew would appreciate knowing," Phlox concluded. "It can be stressful enough being out here as it is."

As 'not permitted' as it was, Picard couldn't resist Archer's offer of a tour of the bridge. It was simpler, more basic than the Enterprise-D. Less colourful and more metallic.

There were a million questions that he wanted to ask, but he was aware of the time. Q had said two hours, and Picard was absolutely certain that the alien would stick to the deadline even if he and Beverly were still aboard.

Archer and Phlox accompanied their visitors to the transporter room.

"Thanks for your help." Archer shook Picard's offered hand. "I very much doubt any of us would be here if it wasn't for you."

Picard nodded. "Take care of him," he asked of Archer quietly.

"Don't worry."

Picard knew he had no reason to. Something within him still ached to be leaving. Malcolm was a kindred spirit in many ways but he recognised that his care for the young man bordered on obsession. He had to walk away.

"Goodbye, Captain."

Five minutes later, that area of space was clear of anything but debris from a Borg vessel.

* * *

Never, in the nine years he'd known Trip, had Archer seen him so rattled.

The captain had finally found his chief engineer in the mess hall, despite the fact that not only had it been the last place he'd checked, but also the first.

Trip was out of uniform, his shirt slightly too big for him, allowing him almost to hide inside it. He was sitting at a table close to one of the windows, staring out into space. He had one foot up on the chair, knee pulled up under his chin, one arm wrapped around his leg. His other arm was rested along the table top. His drink, whatever it was, stood untouched in front of him.

"Trip?" Archer approached cautiously, not wanting to spook his friend any more than he already was.

Striking blue eyes glanced up at him. "Jon, hey. Come from sickbay?"

Archer nodded. "Doc's just got him to sleep. If he gets through the night he'll be released."

"How is he?"

The captain tipped his head to one side as he took the chair opposite. "He's...as well as can be expected."

Trip looked away, nodding. He fell silent, and a minute later, he pulled in a shuddering breath.

"Oh, God..."

Archer leaned forward across the table toward the commander. "Talk to me, Trip!" he urged, unknowingly repeating the words Trip had said to Malcolm on the Enterprise-D. "You don't have to suffer alone."

Trip's fingers started to play over the table top, picking at an invisible catch in the smooth surface.

"I tried to get some rest but I couldn't shift the images behind m'eyes."

Sighing softly, Archer reached out, squeezed his friend's arm. "It's going to take time, Trip."

"Think they'll fade?"

"Eventually. Trip...as your friend, I hope you won't mind if I give you some advice."

Trip gazed his best friend. "Go ahead, Jon."

"Well...you know...those memories would probably fade faster if you and Malcolm...worked through this together."

"'Worked through this together'?" Trip half-smiled. "Ya sound like a marriage guidance counsellor."

Jon shrugged. "Maybe that's what I'm getting at. It's been months, Trip, and you haven't made a single move."

"Good God, Jon! He's been violated, practically raped by those bastard aliens! The last thing he needs right now is me coming on to him."

Unperturbed, Archer shook his head. "I think he needs you now."

But he was shaking his head. "Just because I saw what they'd done t'him?"

"Trip!" Jon sighed deeply. He'd kept quiet for too long. "Don't you see that he feels the same about you as you do about him?"

The commander opened his mouth and closed it again. It was a moment before he could speak. "You know that for sure?!"

"Calm down. He didn't tell me, he hasn't spoken to me about you. I just...I just know."

Trip took a deep breath, wrapping his fingers around his drink. "And you think now's a good time to just drop it into the conversation?"

Archer rolled his eyes. "I'm not saying he's going to be ready to jump into the sack at the first opportune moment. But I think what he is going to need is to know someone's there for him. Someone who loves him."

"How come I haven't seen this side o'you before?"

Jon shrugged. "It's Malcolm," he said simply, as if that was enough of an explanation.

"Yeah, it is." Trip sat up straight, looking directly at his captain and friend. "Yeah. It is." Pushing back from the table, he got to his feet.

"Would you excuse me?"

Grinning, Jon nodded. "Certainly, Trip."

* * *

Doctor Phlox's eyes widened when he saw Commander Tucker step nervously into sickbay. Moving around his desk, he all but blocked Trip's path to Malcolm's bed.

"Commander, I would greatly appreciate it if you didn't wake him," he hissed. "I've only just got him back to sleep!"

Trip frowned. "The Cap'n said you'd go' him to sleep a while ago."

"I had, with the help of a mild sedative. But his nightmares are so powerful I had to wake him from them after half an hour. I've tried a mild neural inhibitor. But I don't know..." A sound, somewhere between a groan and a cry, interrupted them. "Shit!"

The bright swear word surprised Trip. He'd never heard Phlox use any kind of human slang before. It was a moment before he moved to follow the doctor over to where Malcolm was waking from the most recent nightmare.

When that good, blue-grey eye opened, it was hooded. Malcolm's expression was one of abject misery as he looked up at Phlox pleadingly.

"Please let me sleep," he muttered, more to himself than the doctor.

Phlox swept one large hand over Malcolm's chocolate-dark hair. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I don't know how to help you."

"I'm so tired..."

"I know."

Stepping up to the other side of the bed, Trip lay a gentle hand on Malcolm's arm, feeling a strange freedom in knowing the other man's feelings for him.

"Can I make a suggestion?" he asked quietly.

Phlox looked at him, relieved, it seemed, to have help. "I think we'd both be grateful for anything you can do," he answered quietly.

"I'll need to take him out of 'ere, and you'll both need to trust me."

Phlox frowned, "Where are you planning on taking him, Commander?"

"To the mess hall. We can take a medical alarm and whatever moni'ors you want." He noted Phlox's cynical expression. Malcolm was just staring at him, too exhausted to argue. "You said you'd tried everything, right?"

"I have." Phlox gazed down at his patient. "Malcolm?"

"Anything, please. I just want to sleep."

Phlox nodded in understanding. He really had run out of ideas, and although he couldn't work out what Trip was up to, if letting the engineer have his way would help, he couldn't find it in his heart to argue.

Malcolm had changed into a medical gown when he'd arrived back aboard.

Now, Phlox found him a robe for the short walk and elevator ride to the mess hall. Trip had gone on ahead, and when Phlox and Malcolm arrived, they found that he'd taken the comforter from his bed and the spare one from his closet, and had constructed a make-shift bed on the floor next to the windows in the hull.

"There was a poet back on Earth in the eighteen centuryâ€”Samuel Colderidgeâ€”when his children were young and couldn't sleep, he'd show them the moon." Phlox gazed at Trip like he'd lost his mind. Malcolm, however, was smiling just a little. "You told me one time. I just thought..."

"You thought if I could see the stars I'd sleep better. Thank you."

"On the other Enterprise, you went for their recreational area. We found you watching the stars."

Malcolm swayed and Trip reached to slip an arm around his waist. "Ready to settle down for the night?"

Phlox busied himself, setting up the medical equipment in the unusual environment. But he was more than open to alternative cures and therapies.

Trip sat himself on the comforter with his back against the hull and simply waited for Malcolm to settle near him, to use him as a pillow however the other man saw fit. Phlox gave Malcolm another injection of the inhibitor Dr Crusher had given to him before fixing a medical monitoring bracelet around the slim wrist. Finally, he dumped the second comforter over both men.

"I need to get back to the infirmary for a short time but I'll be back soon to check on your both. I'll tell the captain what we're doing, hopefully he'll be able to arrange a little privacy for you both in the morning."

Trip nodded and glanced down. Next to him, Malcolm's eyes had already slipped closed.

Carefully, he rested one hand close to the dark head and leaned down to press a kiss into the soft hair. "Sleep tight, Mal," he murmured. "You're safe now." He hesitated, then added, "I love you."

Trip lay awake, waiting for the dreams to disturb Malcolm's sleep.

In the eerie star lit room he let the memories of the cube vessel return to the forefront of his mind. He knew that in order to help Malcolm heal, he needed to heal himself.

When they'd first stepped aboard the alien ship, he'd wanted to leave immediately. Never had an environment been so alien to him. The highly advanced technology had, at the same time, excited and scared him. It had obviously fascinated Malcolm.

It had felt cold and hard. More impersonal than anywhere he'd ever been. He'd seen jail cells with more character.

When he'd first laid eyes on the Borg, he'd felt a sudden, incomprehensible terror. Even before they'd attacked them, before they'd taken Malcolm, Trip had been sure that this particular race weren't going be allies.

But even the chilling feelings of precognition that something was very wrong didn't compare to actually seeing Malcolm after they'd changed him, what was the word? 'Assimilated' him.

Malcolm started to shift in his arms, and quiet whimpers began to escape his lips. Pushing his recollections away, Trip carefully started to pet his bedmate gently.

He stroked long caresses, over Malcolm's shoulder and arm, combing fingers into the short hair at the top of Malcolm's spine.

"Ssh," he cooed softly, hoping he wouldn't be hated in the morning for taking this kind of advantage, "it's okay, Mal. Just a dream, you're safe. I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you."

Of all the things he tried, Malcolm seemed to react best to gentle touches at the back of his neck. The fright seemed to ease, and Trip thought he might be pressing into the touch.

"That's it," Trip continued to soothe, "just dreams, Mal. Nothin' more."

He wanted to whoop in triumph when Malcolm settled against him, breathing evening out, without actually waking.

Moving to cuddle Malcolm again, dropping a second kiss to his hair, Trip mused on how relieved he was that Jonathan Archer couldn't see him right now. He had a reputation to uphold, one he'd only let slip for Malcolm Reed.

* * *

Archer's face broke into a smile when he saw Malcolm sitting up on one of the beds, dressed in a loose sweater and jeans.

Phlox was re-dressing his patient's eye. Trip was hovering a little way behind the bed, also out of uniform. Despite everything, there was a smile playing on his lips that made Archer want to hug him.

"How are you feeling, Malcolm?" Jonathan asked as he approached.

Phlox gently held Malcolm's head still as he tried to look around at his captain. "If you could hold still for a couple more minutes?"

"I'm fine, Captain, for someone who slept on the floor of the mess hall," came Malcolm's somewhat amused answer to that question.

"I want you to take some time off, Malcolm," Archer instructed gently.

The protest he'd expected came immediately. "Captain..."

"Malcolm." He kept the tone of his voice friendly, despite the underlying warning.

"What am I supposed to do, Sir?"

"Relax. Recover." 'Make sure you're...yourself.' He didn't dare put some of his concerns into words. He'd lain awake the previous night, thinking through everything that had happened and finding that what had affected him most was the reaction of the other captain.

Malcolm often inspired feelings of protection in powerful men. Archer sometimes felt it himselfâ€”an often disturbing combination of paternal instincts and a needy desire.

Not something he'd ever act on, not with Trip around. Trip would make Malcolm happy, and that was all that mattered. It hadn't taken too much to persuade himself of that.

"Please, Sir..."

"Just a few days, Malcolm. That's an order."

* * *

Trip glanced down as his hopefully soon-to-be lover stepped into engineering. He was still on sick leave, out of uniform, wearing dark blue, ass hugging jeans and a warm, blue sweater.

His left eye was almost fully healed, the patch gone. But he'd lost weight, not wanting to eat, claiming he wasn't hungry.

The doctor had prepared him some nutritional drinks, and Archer had practically forced them down his throat. But he hadn't had an inch of fat on him to begin with, and now he was painfully thin.

Still, to Trip he was a beautiful and life-affirming sight. After the night in the mess hall, Malcolm had spent the following nights in Trip's quarters. Nothing was said, no questions were asked. They'd talked a little, but mostly Trip had just held Malcolm while he slept. He wasn't sure who was taking the most comfort from the odd situation. The engineer's own sleep was plagued by nightmares, and although waking next to Malcolm scattered the horrific images quickly, it meant neither of them were getting much rest.

"Hello, Gorgeous," Trip greeted the other man quietly. He'd made no secret of his wishes. He was certain it was only a matter of time before Malcolm admitted he felt the same. As it was, his greeting was rewarded with a blush and an almost shy smile. "Bored?"

"Extremely."

Two days, and Malcolm thought he must have walked the length and breadth of the ship. Literally.

Malcolm had never known anywhere safer or warmer than Trip's arms. When he slept, he could hear the collective in his mind, remembered commands that had been stored like software on a hard disk. He didn't understand the words now, didn't know what they meant, but it scared him to know they were there.

In case they encountered the Borg again, and suddenly it did all make sense.

When they'd grabbed him, he'd struggled, tried to fight them. But they were stronger than anything he'd ever known, immovable objects at his side, pinning his arms behind him.

They'd been emotionless, hadn't spoken a word to him then. Until they'd pushed him back into one of the ship's alcoves.

The shock of having something drill into his skull had paralysed him. A few seconds later, restraints weren't necessary anyway. He'd lost control of his body. He could still feel; the sharp pain along his arm, the deep, nauseating feeling of something being pumped into his throat.

And then they'd taken him from the alcove and laid him out on a flat surface. They'd been all around him then, and one of them...had pushed something sharp into his eye. He remembered that, remembered trying to scream and being unable to do anything but lie there and listen to the voices in his head, the voices that were telling him that he belonged to them now.

That he would never be alone again.

Viciously pressing the thoughts to the back of his mind, trying once more to lock away his memoriesâ€”wishing he could forgetâ€”Malcolm smiled up at Trip again.

"I'm bored," he stated, unable and unwilling to keep the affection from his voice.

"I'm off shift in twen'y. Wanna go get something to eat?"

"Sir!" Trip turned and Malcolm looked up at the sudden, panicked cry from a young ensign working on the manifold couplings. "The power grid's going..."

Without further warning, an almighty explosion shook the metal platform surrounding the impressive engines.

In the midst of the chaotic aftermath, Trip checked quickly on his staff. A call of, "Everyone ok?" was answered by grunts and groans of confirmation.

Knowing that it was the quiet ones he had to worry about, Trip cautiously rose to his feet, testing the stability of the platform, holding on to the rail.

The emergency lighting had kicked in, and peering into the red-tinted smoke below, he searched for Malcolm.

"TRIP!" Archer's voice over the Comm channel.

"Power relays mustav overloaded, Cap'n," he called his reply over the hissing of venting gasses, the extractors clearing the air of any poisonous chemicals and the alert alarms going off. "I think we're okay."

Swearing softly to himself, Trip went for the ladder to take him down to the lower level. A sharp agony raced up his right leg and he bit back a cry of pain. Looking down, he saw the metal shard buried in his shin.

"Dammit!"

Using the rail to steady himself, he slowly made it down the steps, one at a time, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"Malcolm?"

The extractors were rapidly clearing the smoke, making it easier to see on the lower level.

"Cap'n, we're gonna need a medical team down here!"

Archer didn't even pause, "They're on their way Trip."

"Good, 'cause..." He swore brightly as he fell over something on the floor. When he looked down, he saw that it was a leg. "Malcolm!"

Dropping to a crouch he started to tear debris away from where it had gathered, a pile propped up against the bank of controls.

Malcolm was slouched against one of the open panels. He'd been slammed back by the blast, from what Trip could see, and his right shoulder and arm had been trapped in the blown circuitry.

But what was worse than the blood soaking through the blue material of his ripped and singed sweater, was the expression on his face when he looked up at Trip.

Terror and pleading had replaced the fragile contentment Trip had witnessed over the last forty-eight hours. Wide grey-blue eyes stared up at him, unblinking.

Trip crouched at his side, looking closely at the innards of the panel and their hold on Malcolm's arm. "Doc's on his way, Mal. Don't worry, it's just a flesh wound." Glancing at the man on the floor, he saw that Malcolm too was staring at his arm. "Don' look, Mal, I think it looks worse than it is."

"Elev..."

"Wha'?" Trip leaned down, trying to hear the words Malcolm was whispering.

"Eleven...of twenty?"

It was definitely posed as a question, but it didn't make sense to Trip. "Take it easy."

The medical team pushed their way into the damaged area, spreading out to find casualties. Phlox went straight to Trip and Malcolm.

Quickly, he removed the shard of metal from Trip's leg and field-dressed the wound. "Probably not the best idea under normal circumstances," he chatted cheerfully as he worked, "but I need your help and I don't want you accidentally pushing it in any further."

Trip's stomachâ€”already queasy with the painâ€”turned over at the suggestion. But he ignored it, concern for Malcolm overriding any of his own body's needs right now. "What can I do?"

"You can find a cutting device." Phlox's attention was on Malcolm's trapped arm. "Is there live current in here?"

"Sure."

"Why hasn't he been electrocuted?"

Trip opened his mouth and closed it again.

Shaking his head, Phlox reached inside and very gently took a hold of Malcolm's hand. Working around the doctor, Trip severed the connections of circuit parts that had been buried in Malcolm's flesh.

It took a few minutes. Phlox worked his bedside manner magic, but his patient wasn't responding. He was staring into the smashed controls, eyes flicking from his injured arm to the flashing LEDs and sparking wires surrounding it.

"Eleven of twenty," he murmured, to himself this time.

Catching the barely audible words, Phlox looked up at Trip. "What does 'Eleven of twenty' mean?"

Trip shrugged. "I have no idea, but it seems importan'. It's all he's said since this happened."

Once it was freed, Phlox carefully lowered Malcolm's arm, looking it over once, quickly. The wounds were dark patches of cauterised skin, blood and wool. He wrapped the bleeding limb in a sterile bandage.

"Let's get him to sickbay."

* * *

Archer met them en route. Several of the engineering team were being moved, suffering from minor cuts and first degree burns. Most of the safety features had done their jobs and no one had been badly injured.

In sickbay, Ensign Cutter assisted with cleaning and dressing wounds, while Phlox settled Malcolm on a bio-bed and started to remove the sleeve of his sweater, having to separate the material fused to his skin.

Archer watched from a couple of feet away as Cutter got around to Trip's wound, dressing it where he sat up on the bed next to Malcolm.

The Lieutenant seemed totally out of it, staring down at his arm while Phlox treated it.

It had to hurt, Archer thought to himself but Malcolm wasn't even flinching, as if the arm belonged to someone else entirely and he was just an interested onlooker.

After a few minutes, Archer approached. "Malcolm?"

He didn't get much of a reaction, just a muttered, "Eleven of twenty," spoken as if the words disgusted Malcolm.

Archer recognised the phrase from when they'd been on the other Enterprise. He remembered the look on Doctor Crusher's face when she'd heard it.

"What's eleven of twenty?" he asked quietly, schooling his expression carefully.

Malcolm turned his head then, and to his own misery Archer saw tears in those gypsy grey eyes. "Me, Sir," he said softly.

"You..." Suddenly it felt very important to the captain that he figure out what those words meant. He was aware of Trip watching them both, trying to ignore the pain in his leg, and he gave his friend a smile before moving to sit on Malcolm's other side. "You're Lieutenant Malcolm Paul Reed. You're the armoury officer aboard the Enterprise."

'Eleven of twenty.' He replayed Doctor Crusher's words, 'Keep talking to him, keep saying his name.'

Phlox was checking each wound on Malcolm's arm and on the back of his shoulder. "You have minor burns," he told his patient, "cuts and some deeper wounds that I'd like to graft with the help of a couple of Altarian Eels." Reaching for a hypo-spray, the doctor ousted the other two from the bed. "I'm going to sedate you while I do this. While not actually painful, it's not a pleasant procedure and an experience which I believe you could well do without."

He waited for a response. "Lieutenant?"

Malcolm blinked and nodded.

"Excellent. Up on to your stomach please."

Archer almost winced at the still cheerful tone of the doctor's voice, but Malcolm just lifted his legs up onto the bed and turned over. As he moved, his gaze caught Trip's and he tentatively reached out with his good hand.

Trip went without hesitation, taking Malcolm's hand in his own. Archer and Phlox exchanged a smile before Phlox said kindly, "Commander Tucker can stay if he promises to sit down and put his leg up."

With those two patients settled, and the eels in place, Phlox checked on the others before approaching Archer who was still hanging around sickbay.

"When I was on Fala Four," he began, "serving as a medic to their peace-keeping forces throughout the Fala system, there were rumours spread by the deep space pilots about a planet ruled by technology." He glanced up and saw that he had Archer's full attention.

"There were many stories, and most of them were exaggerated, but they all had the same basic premise. It was said that on this particular planet, one outside our sector of space, a race lived which had become extremely technologically evolved. So much so, that they began to implant themselves with pieces of their technology. According to one drunken pilot, they had all linked themselves to one great artificial intelligence, using neural links. This way, they could communicate with one another no matter where they were."

Archer waited for the doctor to continue. When he didn't, the captain prompted him.

"What happened to them?"

"I don't know. With rumours like that abound, even the hardest of the pilots wouldn't go near the planet and soon the stories faded. I left the Fala system and headed further into this sector. I haven't been that far out into space since."

"You think that the Borg and your technologically advanced race are one and the same?"

"I'm just telling you what I heard, Captain. But I do remember overhearing a conversation in the mess hall one night, between two pilots. One was asking about the families on the alien planet, and the other was saying that he'd heard of family members being given numbers in place of their names."

Archer picked it up quickly. "Eleven of twenty?"

"Possibly. It just struck a chord with me, that's all I'm saying. As far as I know, the race on that planet blew themselves to bits playing with technology that out-evolved them."

One of Phlox's patients waved him over, and he excused himself from the captain's side.

Archer lingered in sickbay for sometime, watching over Malcolm and Trip until he needed somewhere else to think.

* * *

It was the next morning before Phlox allowed Trip to accompany Malcolm back to his quarters.

The eels had done their work and the burns on Malcolm's shoulder and arm were healing cleanly. Trip had stayed with him, leaving only in the early hours to catch a shower and get a change of clothing. He'd arrived back in sickbay in time to be with his friend when he came around from the sedative Phlox had administered.

Since that moment, several hours before, Malcolm had been desperate to get out of sickbay. His utter relief when he was told he could leave was palpable. And worrying, as far as Trip was concerned.

The moment the door to Malcolm's quarters had closed behind them, he had announced, "I want a shower."

Trip's protest, that Phlox had instructed him to keep the bandages dry, fell on the closed bathroom door.

Sighing, stretching himself out on the bed, Trip closed his eyes and listened to the water falling in the room next door. He wasn't sure whether it was a long time, or it just felt that way. But the water stopped eventually, and he heard Malcolm moving about, drying himself.

It all went quiet then, for a minute or two.

The sound of breaking glass was a shock in the silence. It propelled Trip to his feet in a heartbeat.

"Mal!"

He tried the door and found it locked. For a moment, he thought he'd have to break it down. But a second later, the door opened and Malcolm was standing before him, towel wrapped around his waist, blood dripping from small cuts in his left hand.

"Malcolm! What the hell...?" The Englishman shook his head slowly, taking a deep breath. "I should call Phlox..."

"Don't." The word was spoken in quiet resignation. "Please. It's just a couple of cuts. I have a bandage in here somewhere."

Stepping back, he opened the cupboard on the wall and hunted around until he found a sterile dressing still in its wrappings.

Trip followed him into the cramped room, immediately seeing what had been broken.

The small mirror that hung above the sink was smashed. Shards of glass were in the sink and on the floor.

"You migh' have glass in your hand," he told Malcolm softly, "come out here and let me look at it."

Sitting on the bed, Trip scrutinised the wounds but could find no hint of glass in them. Carefully, he pressed on a couple of places, causing Malcolm to hiss in pain but confirm he couldn't feel anything beyond the injuries themselves.

Finally, Trip led Malcolm back into the bathroom, cleaned the cuts and dressed his hand.

"The Cap'n's gonna go crazy when he sees that, ya know," he chided gently as Malcolm dressed himself. Despite having to watch the man he loved struggle with his shirt and jeans, he didn't offer any help. Malcolm was obviously distressed enough as it was without further trouncing his dignity. But it wasn't an easy thing just to stand there. "What happened, Mal? Didn't like the stubble of your beard this mornin'?"

Malcolm gave up on his shirt buttons three from the top and dropped to sit down hard on the bed.

"I looked at myself and suddenly I was seeing me as one of them, that red beam passing through the mirror. You don't know what it was like...that eyepiece...Blinking and feeling something there. Knowing there was pain but not being able to feel it."

Trip moved to sit beside him. "That's why you broke the mirror?"

"When I hurt myself, when I feel the pain, I know I'm alive."

Trip felt a chill curl around his spine. "There are other ways of feelin', Mal," he murmured quietly.

"Yes," Malcolm agreed wanly, "but how can you love me when I don't know who I am?"

"You're Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, armoury officer aboard..."

Suddenly Malcolm was off the bed. "Stop! Don't!" He paced to the door and turned, fingers raking through his still-damp hair. "I'm not talking about the officer, the uniform, that person I've been all my life, since I was old enough for my father to tell me his navy stories and demand I follow in his footsteps. Did you know that the first time I lifted a gun, I aimed it at him?" Taking a deep breath, he regained his fierce control over his rampaging emotions. Pressing his palm to his chest, he said, "I'm talking about me."

Trip didn't hesitate. "You are Malcolm Paul Reed. You're a very special guy. You must be because you're the first man I've fallen for this hard." He watched the expression on Malcolm's face. "Who you are hasn't changed, Mal."

"My sister used to say...you can see everything you are in the darkness behind your eyelids. When I close my eyes now, I just see diodes and that red lazer sight. I feel the cold of those implants and I hear them, like commands stored in my brain that I can't understand but I know...if they take me again they'll force me to use them."

It was a few moments before Trip could think of anything to say. "They're gone, Mal." It sounded woefully inadequate.

But Malcolm shook his head. "They're just not here. But they're somewhere out there."

"They were a part of the other Enterprise's time, not ours. Cap'n Picard explained all that. I don' know how he knew, an' I don' wanna know. But I think you're safe, Mal, at least from those fuckers."

Blue-grey eyes met Trip's worried gaze, and at that moment, Trip would have gone head to head with any number of Borg to keep this man from suffering any more.

Scooting back on the bed until he was leaning against the wall, he reached for Malcolm. "C'mere."

Returning to the bed, Malcolm moved across the mattress on to his knees and straddled Trip's thighs, one knee either side of his hips. Their height difference meant that Malcolm was only an inch higher than the other man like this, and Trip could easily take his weight, especially as he was so damn thin at the moment.

Trip wrapped his arms around Malcolm in a ferocious hug. "I know what they did to you on the outside, Mal, but we can' begin to imagine what it was like. I need you to talk to me, to trust me."

Malcolm slowly dropped his forehead against Trip's and closed his eyes, fingers combing into the blond-highlighted hair.

Trip felt a single sob rise through the other's body.

"What they made me..." The words were forced out, tears held back through sheer stubbornness.

Trip ran his hands up and down Malcolm's back, soothing himself as much as he was the other man. "You're still you. Wha' they tried to make you...we undid that."

"But I can still...feel it. Feel those things inside me, working..."

Trip could only hope that what he was feeling was a memory, like missing a severed limb. He stroked his hands along Malcolm's thighs, fingers rubbing over the butter-soft denim of the treasured jeans.

"Just memories. They'll fade, memories always do."

Malcolm wrapped his arms around Trip's shoulders, rubbing his thumbs over the bare skin at the back of Trip's neck.

"When did this happen?" he murmured softly.

Trip leaned in, dropping soft kisses to Malcolm's throat, pushing the partially-open shirt to one side to expose the prominent collar bone. "What?" he asked, sounding distracted but ultra-aware of the inclination of Malcolm's voice and his reactions to each soft caress.

"You. And me."

"The moment I laid eyes on you."

"And even after I tried to kill you?"

Hands moving to Malcolm's hair, Trip pulled back slightly. "You didn't, Mal. Wasn' you. I'd trust you with my life."

Using his fingers in Malcolm's hair to close the gap again, Trip let his mouth linger over his now-to-be lover's before he parted his lips.

He couldn't keep his hands still for long. Following the line of Malcolm's shirt, he reached the first fastened button and slipped it through the hole, doing the same all the way down until his fingers touched the taut belly.

He continued to caress the smooth, finely-haired stomach, dipping his fingers into the waistband of the jeans, teasing.

At least, he thought he was teasing. But when Malcolm thrust gently into his hand and moaned into their kiss, other possibilities started to present themselves.

Pulling back slightly, Trip looked at his friend. "Mal?"

"Please, Trip...I need to feel."

A dark idea prodded him, and he frowned. "I won' hurt you, Mal."

"I'm not asking you to. Just love me."

There was something in the tone of the words, something that touched him in a place he usually kept locked away from his lovers. Wrapping both arms around Malcolm, a touch of desperation guiding his actions, Trip melded his mouth over the other man's, kissing him as hard as he held him.

Malcolm went with it, maybe understanding the need that was driving Trip now. To be alive, to be themselves, to be in control, something they took for granted until it was ripped away. But to have the choice to give up that control, to trust someone enough to do so, to know that afterwards, it would be given back...That was more than Malcolm had ever known. Until he'd met Trip.

Proving just how supple he really was, Malcolm managed to get his jeans off without moving too far from Trip's lap.

"Neat trick," Trip commented with a wry smile.

Malcolm laughed; an amazing sound to Trip's ears. "Bet you can't do it."

Never able to resist a challenge, the commander settled his shoulders flat against the wall and lifted his hips, at the same time lifting Malcolm off the bed.

"Hey!"

"You asked." He undid his fly and shuffled his ass, left to right, using his thumbs to ease his pants down over his hips, his thighs and out from under his lover, finally removing them with his feet. Wiggling his eyebrows, he pulled his T-shirt off and pulled Malcolm forward until their naked cocks stood length to length. "Impressed?"

"Very." Leaning in to press close to his lover, Malcolm flicked his tongue over Trip's lips. "Always."

"Liar."

For a time they just kissed, playfully exchanging wet caresses. But the deeply intimate contact was slowly becoming too much.

"Trip...please."

Hoping he knew what Malcolm had been asking for, Trip reached out and opened the small bedside drawer, blindly searching for the long tube. Snagging it, he kissed Malcolm again, teasing the thin lips with the tip of his tongue as, behind Malcolm's back, he squeezed lube onto his fingers.

Gently, he cupped his lover's ass with one hand and pressed his gelled fingers to Malcolm's anus.

Malcolm broke the kiss, breathlessly panting, dropping his forehead to Trip's shoulder. Slowly, he was breached. The feel of something warm inside him kicked his arousal up a notch and he groaned, a sound that rose from deep in his throat.

Sliding out, Trip paired the first finger with a second and pushed back inside.

"God..." the long, drawn out word sent a shudder down Trip's spine, and he had to concentrate for a moment on not having another orgasm trigged by a simple sound of Malcolm's.

"Will you," he withdrew his fingers, "stop that!" Lightly, he smacked his lover's ass.

Malcolm growled. It was, by far, the most erotic sound that Trip had ever heard.

He rolled his eyes, meeting Malcolm's stoned gaze when the other man lifted his head. Trip was going to make another flip comment, but seeing the need in his lover's face, the words fled and he was left with one single idea in his mind.

"Turn around," he murmured, voice rough.

Carefully, Malcolm obeyed, turning in Trip's lap, raising himself up on his knees.

Grabbing the lube, Trip touched himself cautiously, rubbing the gel on his cock.

"Won' hurt ya," he reiterated, almost to himself, as he guided Malcolm back and down.

Sharp cries were torn from them both, Malcolm's vision lighting up with stars. "Wait..."

Freezing, Trip held as still as he was able. "Y'ok?"

"Yes. Just..." Malcolm pulled in two deep breaths, releasing them slowly. Then he took Trip's right hand from his hips, linked their sweaty fingers and lowered himself until he was impaled completely on his lover's cock.

"Jeez...Mal..." Resting his forehead against Malcolm's back, Trip freed one hand and wrapped his arm around the man's slim waist. Tightening their linked fingers, he waited for Malcolm to move again.

A second later, he did just that. Lifting himself a couple of inches, he started into a slow, steady rhythm.

All Trip could do was hold on. In his position, he could only thrust up a little way. Malcolm was hot and almost virginally tight, and Trip could feel his climax tingling his toes, curling around the base of his spine.

"Mal..."

Reaching for Malcolm's thick erection, Trip wrapped his fist around it and started to masturbate him in the same rhythm he'd set.

Malcolm, in turn, put his free arm back, wanting more contact, urging Trip impossibly closer with his bandaged hand.

Rising, falling, rising, Malcolm dropped suddenly, crying out as he came, coating the fingers that continued to pump him. "Trip...!"

The tensing of his lover's body sent Trip's into overload. He came hard, shaking his hand free of Malcolm's hold to grip one hip and hold Malcolm in place as he thrust up once more.

"Gawd, Mal..."

Shaking violently, Trip wrapped himself around Malcolm, hugging him tight and close.

Malcolm put his head back, turning to drop a kiss into Trip's hair. "Thank you," he murmured, relaxing into the firm embrace, feeling Trip softening inside him.

Wanting to keep his lover there, he clenched his anus hard.

Trip cried out, half-yelling, half-laughing. "Malcolm!"

"Sorry." But the tone of his voice betrayed him.

Trip angled his head and Malcolm met his lips in a long kiss before slipping carefully off his lap to one side, separating them, settling in the crook of his arm. He felt the emptiness acutely, but said nothing.

Letting Malcolm snuggle, Trip wrapped him in a possessive embrace.

After a few minutes' silence Trip gently covered the bandaged hand where it lay against his chest. "If you need to feel, Mal, I can help with that. Don' need t'go round hurtin' yourself."

All he got in reply was a soft snore.

* * *

_Two weeks later_

"Well, that was spectacularly unimpressive, Lieutenant," Archer teased from the bridge.

Down in Tactical, Malcolm snarled softly to himself. His eyes tracked back and forth over the readouts from the new weapons array while Trip manually reconfigured the power inputs.

"Ignore him," the chief engineer told his lover without looking up. "And that was definitely one of the noises you aren' supposed to make on duty."

Malcolm smiled, not glancing up from the data he was mentally processing.

"I've found it!" he announced a minute later. "The power relays on grids one and three are overloading."

Trip considered that for a moment. "Okay...So if I move the secondary outputs from those grids and send them to the auxiliary output on the base grid..." There was a crackle of electrics, a brightly spat swear word, and a few seconds later Trip sat back. "Try it now."

"Ready to try again, Captain."

"All yours, Malcolm."

Murmuring a short but meaningful prayer to himself, Lieutenant Reed pressed his thumb on the 'Fire' button.

The space wreck flew into a thousand pieces.

"Very nice, Lieutenant." The spoken praise came from the bridge over the Comms channel.

The hearty pat on the back, and the intimate squeeze of his shoulder came from closer quarters.

"Thank you, Captain."

"We'll try to find you some new targets to play with."

"That would be much appreciated."

The ship moved off through the space equivalent of a junkyard.

Malcolm reset the weapons array while Trip read through the input and output readings for the power couplings.

"You're enjoying this far too much." Trip leaned over Malcolm's shoulder, grinning.

"I..." Malcolm looked at his lover, seeing something in his eyes that Trip had learned to read over the last couple of weeks.

"It's okay, Mal."

"If I ever see them again...I want to be ready to blow those bastards out of the sky."

"I know. And that's okay." He smiled. "That's a healthy need for revenge." Wrapping his arm loosely around Malcolm's waist, giving him a rare on-duty cuddle, Trip reassured him. "Still love ya."

Smiling gratefully, Malcolm squeezed Trip's hand for a moment before letting go. "I love you too. Now get on with the configuration, I've got ships to blow up."


End file.
